A tattered tramp tacks a windy wynd
To close a crowded circle round a brazier's light
A man becomes a mountain in the falling snow
A mother screams and a baby cries
The memory gone before the blood has dried
A needle pricks the conscience
To help it fade away

The more you scream, the less you hear
Or that's how it used to be
But I just can't tell the difference
Anymore these days
The open lips of an alter boy
A planet spins in a silent void
The options are ever fewer
On the ground these days